


About Face

by Politzania



Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (more than once), Age Regression/De-Aging, Assumed Character Death, Canon Divergence - Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Occult Hydra Bullshit, background Steve/Bucky - Freeform, redemption arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-02-19 14:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22712245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Politzania/pseuds/Politzania
Summary: Brock Rumlow is having a hell of a week.  After surviving the explosion in Lagos thanks to occult Hydra bullshit, he is tasked with assisting Helmut Zemo in an improbable (at best) plan to destroy the Avengers.  But getting a new lease on life may have given Brock a change of heart as well; when the plan turns  Captain America, the Winter Soldier and Iron Man into children, Brock finds himself taking on the role of their protector.Tony Stark Bingo: Brock Rumlow
Comments: 49
Kudos: 61
Collections: Tony Stark Bingo 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [By Their Bootstraps](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14303412) by [Politzania](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Politzania/pseuds/Politzania). 



> Title: About Face  
> Collaborator Name: PoliZ  
> Card Number: 3012  
> Square Filled: Adopted: Brock Rumlow  
> Ship/Main Pairing: background Steve/Bucky,  
> Rating: Teen  
> Major Tags: CA:CW canon divergence, occult Hydra bullshit, de-aging, redemption arc, Major Character Death  
> Summary: Brock Rumlow is having a weird fucking week. After surviving the explosion in Lagos thanks to occult Hydra bullshit, he is tasked with assisting Helmut Zemo in an improbable (at best) plan to destroy the Avengers. But getting a new lease on life may have given Brock a change of heart as well; when the plan turns Captain America, the Winter Soldier and Iron Man into children, Brock takes on the role of protector.

He stared down from the catwalk to the silo floor, not quite able to believe his eyes. Where just moments ago, Iron Man, Captain America and the Winter Soldier had stood, now there were three small figures that looked eerily like children. Brock Rumlow sighed; it had already been one hell of a weird fucking week. 

It started in Lagos when he pushed the detonator for his suicide vest; the stunned look on Cap’s face making it almost worthwhile. Brock had expected the sensation of being thrown in the air, and the blast of heat. But he couldn’t fathom how he’d ended up buck-naked in a hotel room, the aftermath of the explosion still echoing across the city as he listened to the disembodied voice of a man calling himself Arnim Zola coming from a smartphone. 

The German-accented explanation washed over him as Brock took in the fact that not only was he still alive, but somehow restored; his body no longer a twisted mass of scars, but the agile, powerful form he’d sculpted for himself years ago. Brock listened in confusion to the man’s ravings: something about the true master race -- the Kree -- and the vast power they wielded; the ability to resurrect, to transform, to manipulate time and space. Zola spoke stirringly of re-establishing order; and as Brock well knew, such establishment only comes through pain. With that threat hanging in the air, Zola continued, “And you, Agent Rumlow ... you are to be my eyes, ears and hands in this upcoming endeavor. Do as I say, and you will be rewarded. If you run, you will die ... slowly and painfully. Do we have an understanding?”

Brock understood very little of what had just happened, but one thing he did know, and that was how to play along and bide his time. “Yes, sir.” 

It wasn’t until Brock was actually on the plane, during the long haul flight from Lagos to Vienna, that he had a chance to reflect on his situation. His new body was a wonder and a delight. The airport security hadn’t batted an eye when they compared the Zola-provided passport to his current appearance. The flight attendant had greeted him civilly, without the usual forced grin and slow, loud voice most people reserved for the crippled, and he had smiled confidently in return. Once in his seat, Brock marveled at his own hands, flexing his fingers easily, making a fist with no pull of scar tissue, something he hadn’t been able to do for much too long. 

Being pain free for the first time since the Triskelion fell was like a drug, leaving him almost giddy in its wake. Brock recognized that the rage that had driven him over the past two years had at least in part been a reflection of that constant torment. He had harnessed that pain and anger; ruthlessly taking control of the remnants of the Hydra cells he encountered. He had leveraged his horrific appearance to fill the power vacuum; taking charge, formulating plans and giving orders. 

Hydra had once meant everything to him; it had been the family he’d never had. Project Insight was supposed to be the start of a new world order, where all was as it should be. In the aftermath of its failure, Brock had pored through the SHIELD file datadump, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. He discovered that only a few higher-ups in leadership roles had been intended to prosper. Everyone else would remain nothing more than interchangeable, disposable cogs in the machine. 

He himself had been nothing more than one of those cogs; now refurbished, he was casually being slotted back into the machine. Zola’s assumption that he would be willing, no, actually eager to do whatever he was told -- to be hired muscle and an errand boy -- rankled Brock no end. But with Lagos as his intended swansong, he had burned all his bridges. With no plans of his own, no motivation, no allies and no resources, it seemed he had no choice but to comply. At least for now. 

The smartphone that was Brock’s only method of communication with Zola also contained his initial briefing. He was to work in a support role for a Helmut Zemo, a Sokovian ex-military man who Zola had managed to turn to the cause. Hopefully, Brock reflected, Zemo’s plan for destroying the Avengers would be more successful than his own had been. Discovering that Rogers had survived the explosion in Lagos left Brock feeling oddly empty, as if his desire for revenge had been incinerated in the explosion as well. 

The more Brock read through Zemo’s plan, the more harebrained and needlessly complex it seemed. It started with framing the former Winter Soldier for a bombing in the hopes of flushing him out of hiding. It proceeded to assume Barnes would be brought into custody, instead of killed outright, or escaping yet again. Then Zemo would find a way to get his hands on Barnes and somehow turn him back into the Soldier. Brock pinched the bridge of his nose and stopped reading at that point. Maybe this latest incarnation of Hydra didn’t have it together as well as they thought if they were relying on these sorts of wackos to get the job done. 

Brock checked into his hotel room in Berlin to await further orders. The first few steps of Zemo’s nutball plan had actually worked. Barnes had been brought in, and Zemo was transforming himself into the psychiatrist that would be interviewing the former Winter Soldier. He told Brock to head to a deserted rooftop and wait. Barnes would be triggered, make his escape from the Interpol building and commandeer a helicopter, picking both him and Zemo up to fly them directly to the airport. 

Brock couldn’t help but feel vindicated when Barnes was unable to complete his mission, crashing the chopper into the river instead. Rogers once again must have refused to give up on his buddy, his Bucky. Jealousy of their enduring friendship had spurred Brock’s last, lying words to Rogers. Hydra could never totally erase that bone deep connection between the two men. While everyone Brock had ever considered a friend had either betrayed him or was dead -- in a few cases, in that order.

Brock returned to his hotel room and waited for new orders. He dozed off, startling awake when his phone buzzed. Picking it up, he saw what looked to be an incoming call, but with the microphone muted. Holding the phone to his ear, Brock heard a conversation already in progress.

“So you’re telling me, Sam, that it wasn’t the Winter Soldier in Vienna?” 

“Yeah. Barnes said he was in Bucharest the whole damn time,” replied a somewhat familiar voice. As Brock listened, he realized that Zola had somehow tapped Sam Wilson’s phone. “And the timeframe doesn’t fit, if you think about it. The guy can’t fly, not with that metal arm of his. No way he could have driven or taken a train to get back home when he got spotted early the next day. And Clint, listen to this shit...” 

Wilson went on to describe Barnes’ rampage and near escape. “He says if the shrink knew his control words, he probably has intel on the other Soldiers.” 

“Other soldiers? There’s more like him?” Clint asked. “Jesus...” 

“That’s why Cap needs your help. Barnes knows where they’ve been kept in cold storage and wants to neutralize them. We could use a few extra hands. Wanda and Vision are at the compound. Pick them up and head to DC. I know a guy on the west coast, he’ll meet you there. I’ll call back when we figure out how to get y’all over here.” 

“Son of a bitch. I hate jet lag.” 

“So you’re in?” Wilson sounded relieved. 

“Yeah. See you soon, Sam.” 

Watching the shitshow that was the Avenger vs Avenger showdown at the airport go down, Brock wondered if Zemo were some sort of fortune teller, or just goddamned lucky. Crossbones would have reveled in the destruction; found an unholy glee in seeing Captain America facing off against Iron Man. But now it left a sour taste in his mouth. He’d had enough. Brock began formulating an escape plan: there was that safe house in Halle, with plenty of cash and the makings for a new passport. If he could just get that far... 

But before he could make his getaway, a couple of goons for hire had hunted him down, and Brock found himself in a windowless room facing a rock pillar. It seemed Zola and Zemo had differing objectives and he’d gotten caught in the middle; while Brock had done everything asked of him, Zola continued to demand more. 

“Listen to me very carefully, Agent Rumlow, if you wish to survive my disappointment,” Zola intoned coldly, this time from a speaker set into the wall. “Your new assignment: find Helmut Zemo and kill him. Then reacquire your targets - Captain America and The Winter Soldier. You will use the grenades I am so thoughtfully providing to subdue them, then wait for further orders.”

“And how in the hell do I do all that?” The last Brock knew, Rogers and Barnes had taken off in a quinjet, presumably to destroy the Soldiers that Zola intended to harness in the name of his masters. Zemo himself was nowhere to be found, presumably having abandoned the plan in favor of his own revenge. 

Zola chuckled malevolently. “We have that taken care of.” The pillar suddenly turned to a liquid and flowed toward Brock, engulfing him. Before he could react, he was spat back out onto a cold metal catwalk, the breath knocked out of him. As he lay there gasping, Brock heard Zemo speaking over a PA system. 

“If it’s any comfort, they died in their sleep.” He paused before speaking again. “Did you really think I wanted more of you? I’m grateful to them, though. They brought you here.” That pillar must’ve somehow transported him to the base where the other Soldiers had been kept. But what was that Sokovian asshole’s final play? 

Zemo taunted the two super-soldiers, and Brock was shocked to hear Stark respond; he was about the last person Brock would have expected to be here. Still laying flat on the catwalk, Brock hazarded a look. Stark, Rogers and Barnes were walking towards one wall of the silo, presumably where Zemo lurked. He wasn’t close enough to hear the non-amplified discussion that resulted, to understand why the three men clustered around some sort of monitor. Stark’s shouted question of “What is this?” didn’t help. Whatever it was, Stark suddenly lunged for Barnes, with Rogers doing his best to restrain his teammate. 

When Stark backhanded Rogers, sending him flying, Brock was shocked into action. He had watched these men fight one another before and if he could keep them from harming each other any further, he had to interfere. He unclipped one of Zola’s grenades from his belt, primed it and tossed it into the midst of the impending battle. Once they were down for the count, he’d go after Zemo. 

Even at that distance, the flashbang stunned him momentarily. Blinking and rubbing his eyes, Brock scrambled to his feet, expecting some sort of knockout gas to be pouring from the grenade. But instead, the Iron Man armor had frozen in place, and the two other figures were much smaller than they should have been, draped in now-oversized clothes and staring at one another in stunned silence. 

What the hell? Zola had said the grenades were for ‘subduing’ the super-soldiers. Brock’s blood ran cold when he remembered Zola’s boast of the Kree being able to manipulate time. Fuck Zemo and his crazy-ass plan, fuck Zola and his lunatic ravings, and especially fuck Hydra. 

A muffled cry came from the armor, which promptly split down the front, panels retracting into themselves. A child, perhaps five or six years old emerged, too-long sleeves flapping about his hands. It had to be Stark. 

“You killed my mom!” the juvenile screamed, launching himself at the equally-youthened Barnes, who was struggling to free himself from the heavy vest and harness the Soldier had worn. Stark threw wild punches, heedless of the fact that Barnes had at least three inches and probably ten pounds on him. 

Barnes shielded his head with one arm, but made no attempt to either run away or fight back. Brock realized to his horror that Barnes’ left arm was missing, the metal prosthetic lying on the ground at his feet. 

“Tony, stop it! He didn’t mean to!” Rogers piped up as he struggled with the uniform that puddled around him. 

“I didn’t know it was them!” Barnes protested. “They put me in a chair and it made me forget -- they said a bunch of words, an’ then I had t’do whatever they told me to! I’m sorry, Tony, I really, really am!” He started sobbing. “I didn’t want to do any of it.” 

Barnes sat down heavily, curling into himself. The fight seemingly gone out of him, Stark half-heartedly kicked and slapped at the other boy, sobbing as well. Rogers had worked his way free of the Captain America uniform; barefoot and wearing only an undershirt, he darted between the pair. Then, with a heartfelt apology, Rogers flung his arms around Stark -- all three of the boys crying loudly. 

Brock felt a prickling at the corner of his eyes and his throat closing up a little in response. Even if they remembered everything from their adult lives, his former enemies were only children now, and terribly vulnerable. Brock shuddered at the thought of what Zola and his masters had in mind by turning back the clock on these men’s lives. Surely Barnes would be returned to Soldier status, with Rogers making a matched pair. And after brainwashing Stark, they could harness his brilliance as well. 

Brock couldn’t be a part of those plans. He’d given everything to Hydra, and they just kept demanding more. Somehow, the renewal of his body had renewed his sense of purpose as well, but not in the way Zola and his cohorts had intended. He couldn’t let Hydra win; he had to get them all away from here and as soon as possible. But how could he possibly get either Rogers or Barnes to trust him, after everything he had done? 

Brock set his weapons aside, descended the stairs to the floor of the silo and approached the trio with his hands held loosely at his sides. He’d made no attempt to be quiet, to silence his steps, and they’d responded appropriately. All three boys were crouched behind the shield, Barnes with a throwing knife at the ready, and Stark wearing a gauntlet from the armor, repulsor glowing. 

“Rumlow, is that you?” Rogers’ voice, full of astonishment, echoed across the room. “How did you survive the explosion? What are you doing here?” Barnes must have recognized him too, as his face had gone pale. Rumlow knew he hadn’t been the worst of the Soldier’s handlers, but that didn’t mean much in the overall scheme. 

“What the fuck happened to us?” Stark asked belligerently, staring Brock down with all the intensity his small frame could muster. 

“Let’s just say ‘occult Hydra bullshit’ for now,” Brock replied. “I’ll explain best I can once we’re out of here. What happened to Zemo?” 

Stark gave him a sharp look as he replied. “He was in the observation chamber,” pointing to a small, shielded window in the wall they’d been standing near before. “Looks like he took off, though.” 

“Shit.” Brock was torn between trying to track down that slimy Sokovian or getting these kids the hell out of Dodge. As he got closer, he saw that all three of them were trembling, whether from adrenaline, or the cold he couldn’t be sure. But none of them were dressed appropriately -- himself included -- and that was the deciding factor. “First things first. Let’s find some warm clothes.” 

“Up two levels, second hallway to the right. Supply room halfway down the hall. Should be clothing in there.” Barnes cut his eyes over to Rogers. “We’ll wait here.” Wise move -- he wouldn’t trust himself either. Although it went against all his instincts to turn his back on someone holding a throwing knife -- to say the least of Stark’s repulsor -- Brock went to find something for them all to wear.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The arrival of an enemy turned ally gives Brock and the pint-sized Avengers an option for sanctuary as well as a potential solution to their problem, even if it means Brock himself must face justice.

The room was right where Barnes had said; he’d obviously spent some time at this facility when the Asset still was with the Soviets. Brock quickly flipped through the racks, looking for the smallest available sizes. Boots could be stuffed with socks, and clothing layered for warmth. 

As Brock stuffed the items he’d found into a couple of duffle bags, his phone buzzed. He read the text on the screen. “MISSION REPORT”. Fuck. He resisted the desire to throw the phone across the room, instead turning it off and taking the sim chip out, tucking them both in a pocket. Not that Zola didn’t know exactly where he was, but maybe it would buy them some time. 

Brock returned to the silo floor only to see a figure all in black looming over the kids. “Hey! Get away from them!” The figure turned slowly toward him; its face a stylized cat mask. He recognized the getup from the footage Zola had shown him of Bucharest. This guy had been gunning for Barnes, big time, and was probably here to finish the job. Maybe not part of Zola’s gang, but still a danger. 

“And who are you, to be giving such an order?” the man asked in an imperious, African-flavored accent. It tickled the back of Brock’s brain, but he didn’t have time to think on it. 

“Someone who will kick your ass if you lay a finger on those kids,” he found himself replying. Considering his own unarmed status, Brock didn’t suppose he’d last more than a round or two against the powerful figure. But he could think of worse ways to go, defending those he’d wronged so terribly. 

Instead, the man reached up behind his head. There was a soft click and he lifted the integrated helmet and mask off. He was a black guy, maybe a decade Brock’s junior, and he looked vaguely familiar. Staring closely at Brock, the man stated, “You do not belong here ... nor, I believe, anywhere else on this Earth.” So either the guy recognized him, or Rogers and his pals had tipped him off. 

“You’re not wrong. But, hey, before this goes any further,” Brock dropped the duffels and kicked them towards the boys, “how about we not let these kids freeze to death?” 

“Stop calling us kids already,” Stark grumbled, as he pulled one of the bags to him and started rifling through it. 

“Well, we kind of are at the moment, Tony,” Rogers replied. Barnes grabbed the other bag, pulling something out and shoving it at Rogers with a murmured comment. 

The guy in the costume started slowly circling Brock, as if he were a panther on the prowl. Brock turned to keep facing him, but didn’t make any aggressive moves. He wasn’t going to be the one to start anything, but he’d be damned if he was going to let himself be ambushed. 

After nearly a minute of silent observation, the man asked, “How do you come to be here? And what do you know of this transformation?” 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Brock shook his head ruefully. 

The younger man bared his teeth in a wide, fierce smile. “Try me.” 

“How’s about an introduction first, since you already seem to know who I am?” In response, the man blinked slowly, as if in surprise. 

“I am Prince... King T’Challa of Wakanda,” he answered solemnly. Brock tried not to gape in astonishment. It made perfect sense why he was after Barnes; his father, the former king of that reclusive African state, had been killed in the Vienna bombing. A bombing that never would have happened if Brock hadn’t gone after Rogers, or hadn’t assisted Zemo. He had to try to make things right. 

“The only one here guilty of killing your people is me, Your Majesty,” Brock confessed, eyes lowered. “I expected to die in Lagos, and take Rogers with me. But fate had other plans.” He went on to explain, as best he could, the tale of his own resurrection, thanks to the alliance between Zola and the Kree. He described their plan to destroy the Avengers and how Zemo had in turn partnered with them until breaking off to fulfill his personal plan of revenge. The boys’ faces paled with anger as they realized how they’d been manipulated. 

“Once I learned about these guys,” and Rumlow gestured around the room to the cryo tanks, “I knew I couldn’t go on. I’d seen how much chaos one Soldier could cause,” and he nodded towards Barnes, “and I couldn’t imagine a world where five more had been let loose. I was biding my time, but I waited a little too long.” He glossed over how he’d gotten to Siberia, wrapping up by saying he’d been sent here against his will to take out Zemo, and retrieve Barnes and Rogers. 

“Why should we believe anything you have to say?” Rogers asked angrily, his stony expression an odd fit for his young face. 

Brock held his hands wide open. “I’m already livin’ on borrowed time. Why would I waste it on lies?” He pulled out his ace in the hole; the second grenade Zola had given him, just in case.   
Deceptively simple-looking, it was a metal cylinder with a button on one end to prime it. “This might hold the key to getting you three back to normal,” Brock explained as he held it out to the king of Wakanda, who held it carefully as he examined it and asked what it was. “Its twin was what turned these guys into kids in the first place.” 

“What the hell?” Tony squawked. “Why would you even do that?” 

It was a fair question, and deserved a fair answer. He shrugged and replied, “I was told that it would ‘subdue’, not kill. After you backhanded Rogers across the room, it seemed like a good idea.” He glanced at his watch. “We probably want to get out of here sooner than later. Zola’s already breathing down my neck for a mission report.” 

While the boys got dressed, King T’Challa pulled Brock aside. “In allying yourself with these men, you face powerful enemies.” 

“Tell me something I don’t fucking know.” The international community would still be calling for Barnes’ blood, and Rogers would be considered a fugitive as well. Stark’s status was still to be determined, but by coming to Siberia, he had probably also violated the Accords. Belatedly realizing his faux pas, Brock apologized. “Pardon my French, Your Majesty.” 

“I believe strong language is excusable, in this circumstance,” T’challa replied, with a small smile. “If you are committed to this role, I can extend at least temporary sanctuary to you as well. But be aware you will face justice for your crimes eventually.” 

Brock nodded stiffly. While he wondered if Zola and his allies’ influence had reached Wakanda, there was no better option. He glanced over to check the progress that the boys were making on getting dressed, only to discover that Stark appeared to be in some sort of distress, bent over and gasping for breath. Going over to check on him, Brock asked “Hey, kid, you okay?” 

“I’m not a fucking kid!” Stark knocked his hand away. “I’m a forty-six year old man. Billionaire genius playboy philanthropist, isn’t that right. Cap? I’ve built dozens of suits of armor, starting with a box of scraps in a goddamned cave. I’ve fought gods and monsters, aliens and murder-robots. I discovered a new element and I can figure this out. It’s what I do.”

Reassuring words from Rogers combined with the king’s statement that he would provide assistance in figuring out their predicament seemed to mollify Stark, as did the news that Zemo was in T’Challa’s custody. And even though Stark took Brock’s side when Rogers and Barnes protested the fact that he was the only one currently capable of piloting the quinjet, Brock had noticed that Stark still wore the armor’s gauntlet. 

Not only that, but Stark had donned a headset that allowed him to remotely control the rest of the suit. He’d given it instructions to collect whatever data it could about the Winter Soldier program and it walked itself over to one of the consoles to start typing. 

Brock suppressed a shudder, suddenly reminded of the footage from Sokovia. Stark’s Iron Legion had battled against Ultron’s minions, with their metal forms barely distinct from one another, and neither all that concerned about collateral damage. And Ultron itself wouldn’t have existed if it hadn’t been for the former Merchant of Death. But of his passengers, Stark was the only one who didn’t completely hate Brock’s guts; it would be stupid to to alienate him as well. He decided to compliment Stark on his creation instead, and found the response interesting. While Stark waved it off with an offhand remark, there had been a small, surprised look in his eyes, as if he wasn’t used to being praised. 

The bitter cold and wind that assaulted them as soon as they stepped out of the bunker made Brock thankful he’d grabbed a parka and gloves for himself, as the clothing he’d been wearing when Zola sent him to Siberia was in no way sufficient protection. The boys shuffled across the tundra in their too-large boots and oversized jackets; it would probably have been funny in another situation. 

They hurried to the shelter of the quinjet, and the king gave him the appropriate course heading. “We will fly in close formation once we near the Wakandan border,” he advised, “otherwise you might meet a nasty surprise.” 

Brock nodded in acknowledgement, “As you say, Your Majesty. We are in your debt.” His passengers had already gotten themselves situated. Not surprisingly, Rogers and Barnes were sitting right next to the weapons locker. They might not be willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, but he had to trust that they wouldn’t act without cause, either. 

Stark, on the other hand, swung himself into the co-pilot’s seat with a quirked eyebrow aimed in his direction. It wouldn’t hurt to have another set of eyes on the controls, considering the distance and potentially unsettled weather. The empty Iron Man suit boarded the jet, sat down and belted itself in; they were ready for takeoff. 

It had been a while since Brock had been behind the yoke of a quinjet, but it all came back pretty quickly. They got up to altitude without incident, and fell in behind the king’s jet as Brock powered up the cloaking and radar jamming equipment. Once the autopilot was engaged, he turned to Stark. “Any chance there’s something to eat on this bus?” 

After a quick search through the lockers, Stark handed over a MRE and two bottles of water before taking the rest of his bounty to Rogers and Barnes. Brock could hear snatches of conversation, but Stark returned to the co-pilot seat once his meal was done. He flipped a transparent square down from the headset he still wore, and tiny lines of text started appearing on it. 

Brock spent the next few minutes trying to trace back the sequence of events that had placed them all in that missle silo. Barnes was clearly familiar with the location, and had presumably brought Rogers along to face off against the other Soldiers. But what about Stark? His curiosity got the better of him; he had to ask. “So, what brought you to Siberia?” 

“Apparently Zemo’s insanely-dependent-on-coincidences plan,” Stark responded. “I suppose you knew about Barnes and my parents as well?” The low tone in his voice in no way hid the emotion behind the question, but Brock was drawing a blank.

“What about ‘em? I mean, I heard what you yelled, but I don’t know what you meant.” 

“The car accident that killed my parents back in ‘91? Well, it turned out not to be an accident.” Zemo had a security v-video. It showed that the crash d-didn’t do them in, so Barnes f-finished the job.” His eyes were bright with tears and his lower lip trembled as he swallowed hard. It was clear that the transformation had left these men less able to control their emotions. 

Brock patted him on the shoulder. “Jesus, kid.” Stark glared furiously at him, sparking an apology. “Sorry, sorry... I keep forgetting; you’re not a child. But, yeah, that’s ... that’s pretty damned awful, and what a shitty way to find out.” He wasn’t surprised that Hydra had assassinated the elder Stark, but he’d never heard anything about it besides what had been in the news. “But why’d you wallop Cap? Thought you two were friends.”

“He k-knew,” Stark hiccupped. “He knew and didn’t tell me. Must’ve found out when he was digging for intel on his long-lost pal.” 

Huh -- so Captain America wasn’t exactly a shining beacon of truth after all. “That ain’t right, Stark. He shouldn’t have done you that way.” It might sound hypocritical, coming from someone with his history, but Brock was sympathetic nonetheless. 

Stark peeled off the headset to run a small hand over his face. “Yeah, well, it’s not the first time someone I thought was a friend kept secrets from me, and probably won’t be the last.” He took a deep breath. “So, how much longer do we have to go?” 

Brock looked over the instrument panel and did a few quick calculations. “Four, five hours at least.” The quinjets were designed to fly high and fast, but they’d be running on fumes by the time they arrived. Once they made it to Wakanda, they’d be grounded. 

Stark stretched and yawned; Brock resisted the temptation to ruffle the kid’s hair. He had no idea where all these parental instincts were coming from, but he’d be wise to keep them to himself and not piss the guy off any further. “Well, as they say, ‘when action grows unprofitable, gather information; when information grows unprofitable, sleep,’” Stark quoted.

“Machiavelli?” It sounded like something he would have written, if Brock remembered his lit classes correctly. 

“Ursula K. LeGuin, actually.” Stark picked his headset up and turned away to speak quietly into the mic. Brock took the opportunity to check some of the other systems; everything seemed shipshape. He missed the exchange between his passengers after Stark activated sentry mode on his armor, but as long as no-one’s tempers flared again, he didn’t care. 

Following Rogers’ example, Stark nodded off, and even Barnes relaxed a little. Brock let his mind wander as well, reflecting on the downright bizarre series of events that had brought him here. The more he thought about Zola’s ravings, the more determined he was to not let himself or anyone else fall into Hydra’s grasp. He was done with those assholes, and would fight to his dying breath to keep them from gaining further hold. 

Stark jolted himself awake more than once, but Brock pretended not to notice; the guy obviously was uncomfortable with anyone showing concern as to his well-being. But when he reached for his armor’s headset, Brock couldn’t help but say something. “Can’t sleep?”

“Not really. Maybe once we get somewhere with a decent bed. Gonna amuse myself in the meanwhile.”

Now that his co-pilot was mostly awake, maybe Brock could catch a bit of shut-eye himself. “We’ve still got about two hours to go, so I’m gonna catch a catnap,” he told Stark. “Wake me if anything interesting happens.” He tipped back in the pilot’s seat, and threw one arm over his eyes. But all too soon the radio crackled, and he was awake again. 

“Mister Rumlow, are you there?” asked T’Challa.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“We are approaching the Wakandan border. Please form up below and to my left.” Brock took control of the quinjet back over and repositioned accordingly. Stark said something about a rhino, and Brock made a terse reply; they were flying low and slow, which took a good bit of his sleep-deprived attention. 

The king gave another order over the radio; Brock turned off the anti-surveillance features, trusting that they weren’t flying into some sort of trap. The quinjet was pretty agile, but Brock knew his skills weren’t up to any fancy flying. 

“Uh, shouldn’t we be pulling up?” Stark asked, as a mountain in their path loomed closer.

“What’s going on?” Barnes and Rogers came up to stand behind them.

“Either T’Challa’s developed a taste for thrills, or there’s more to that mountain than we’re seeing. ” Stark replied. Brock looked over the cockpit controls to make sure he hadn’t turned off the proximity alarms; they should have been blaring their warning. He clutched the stick til his knuckles turned white, but kept on course.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock and the not-really-kids land in Wakanda; Brock is taken into custody and interrogated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Brief mention of past sexual assault - applicable text is marked with triple dashes.

They all gasped as the king’s jet disappeared into the mountain. But there was no fiery explosion, no cloud of debris scattered over the ground; instead they followed the same path to find themselves flying over a fantastic, futuristic city. Skyscrapers glittered and gleamed in the last few rays of the setting sun, while the lights of the city sparkled and shone. 

“S’like the Emerald City, ‘cept not quite so green,” Barnes breathed, and Brock had to agree.

“Welcome to my home,” T’Challa said over the radio, pride clear in his voice. “We will be landing shortly.” Brock followed the king’s jet, which landed on top of a plateau. A curious structure stood off to one side, and Brock landed a short distance away. 

“We better stay put,” he cautioned, “til we get told what to do.” They watched as T’Challa was greeted by his people. Brock guessed the older, regal-looking woman was the Queen -- _now Queen Mother, thanks to Zemo_ , he thought with a grimace. However, the young woman who accompanied her wasn’t deferential enough to be a handmaiden; perhaps T’Challa had a sister. 

A group of tall, intimidating women armed with spears -- probably some sort of royal guard -- stood at attention as the king spoke with them. After a few minutes, the Queen Mother and the majority of her retinue departed, leaving T’Challa, another man, the young woman, and the guards.

At that point, T’Challa made a beckoning gesture, and Brock lowered the rear ramp. Six members of the guard stood with their weapons ready as the four of them exited and were then escorted over to the king and his companions. 

When you told me these men were children, brother, I thought you were speaking metaphorically!” the young woman laughed.

The fiercest-looking member of the guard pointed her spear in their direction. “Which one is Barnes, my king?” Her question was low and dangerous.

T’Challa quickly made introductions, then continued. “Okoye, the Sergeant was not to blame for Vienna. The man whose actions caused the death of King T’Chaka, as well as many others, is still in the belly of my plane. After so many hours, he is probably eager to be freed.” At her feral grin, he added, “You will not harm him.”

“We shall see,” she answered with more than a hint of insolence, and strode away to retrieve Zemo. Brock didn’t envy his former ally in the slightest. 

T’Challa then instructed another of his guard to take Barnes to the medical suite; naturally, Rogers insisted on going with him. “Of course, Captain,” the king replied smoothly. “You and I will talk once your companion is resting comfortably.” 

Once they departed, the king turned to Brock. “And I wish to speak with you about your former allies and their larger designs. W’kabi, your insight would be appreciated as well.” As he strode toward the building -- Brock and the king’s advisor following -- T’Challa spoke over his shoulder. “Sister, please make Mr. Stark comfortable.” 

It had been a wise move on the king’s part, to split their party up. Not only would it diminish any threat (not that they posed much of one) but it would also allow them to be questioned separately about their experiences. For his part, Brock intended to spill his guts; he’d known he was no longer a free man the minute he heard Zola’s voice. Wakandan justice was surely more merciful than that of Hydra. 

As they walked toward the building, W’kabi murmured a few words in their native language to T’Challa, who nodded thoughtfully and gestured to one of the guards who fell in behind them. The three of them stopped in the foyer and conferred further before T’Challa turned to Brock. “Mister Rumlow, there will be a slight delay while I consult with my security advisor. In the meanwhile, Xoliswa will be your escort.” 

The two men strode away down one hallway, while the guard gestured with her spear in the opposite direction. Brock walked in the direction she indicated; when they reached a crossing, the tip of her spear pricked his shoulder to nudge him in the correct direction. His temper flared as she did the same thing at the next corner, and by the time they reached a third intersection, Brock stopped suddenly and turned to face her, not surprised to see her weapon held a bare inch from his throat. 

“Would you knock it off already? I’m not a dumb animal to be herded this way and that. Either give me clear verbal instructions or jab that spear all the way through me like you clearly want to.” It was a bit of a gamble as to whether she spoke English, but he suspected, like the rest of Wakanda, she was more than she seemed. 

Xoliswa’s eyes narrowed. “Do not tempt me, barbarian,” she growled. “Continue down this hallway. We are nearly there.” They stopped in the middle of the hall a few moments later. “You will wait in here.” She opened the door and motioned him through before closing and locking the door behind him.

Brock knew an interrogation room when he saw it, even without the traditional two-way mirror. The only furnishings were a plain wooden table, a chair set on either side. That said, there was no hasp to lock handcuffs to, no lamp to shine into the suspect’s eyes. He didn’t even see a security camera, but based on what he’d already seen of Wakanda’s technology, he assumed he was being closely monitored. 

They left him to cool his heels for a good half-hour before the door opened again. Brock had seated himself on the far side of the table, and rose to his feet as W’kabi entered, flanked by Xoliswa and another member of the royal guard. They were joined by an older man, who placed a pitcher of water and two glasses on the table before departing. 

The guards took up positions on either side of the door and eyed Brock closely, who in turn attempted to look as non-threatening as possible. “The king has more pressing matters to deal with, and asked me to take charge of your questioning,” W’kabi said, as he poured a glass of water and placed it on the table. “I thought you might be thirsty after your wait.” He took a seat, and Brock sat back down as well. 

He paused only a moment before taking the glass and putting it to his lips. If the king had wanted him dead, he could have done so long before this. As for other drugs, Brock already planned on telling the truth, as unbelievable as it might seem to his captors. He also knew that many cultures placed a high value on hospitality and wanted to stay on his hosts’ good side as much as possible.

The water was cool and crisp, and before he knew it, his glass was empty. W’kabi nodded, a smile playing across his lips as he refilled Brock’s glass before pouring himself a drink. “Quite refreshing, isn’t it?” 

“Best I’ve tasted in a while. I’d like to propose a toast.” W’kabi raised an eyebrow, but motioned for Brock to continue. “To the king of Wakanda, a brave, strong, and compassionate leader who offers shelter even to those who have wronged him and his people.” He held his glass up, and W’kabi tilted his forward to briefly clink them together. After they both drank, he eyed Brock solemnly. 

“So you admit to having caused death and destruction in Lagos.” 

“I do.” 

“What about Vienna?” 

“I had foreknowledge of the event, but was not directly involved,” Brock admitted. “I am sorry for your and your country’s loss.” 

W’kabi regarded him for a long minute. “You are not at all what I expected, Brock Rumlow.” 

“I’m a new man, in more ways than one.” 

“And that is why we are here, to learn more about what you so eloquently told Captain Rogers was ‘occult Hydra bullshit’.” W’kabi touched the bracelet at his wrist and pulled two of the large beads from it. Brock watched with interest as his interrogator deftly manipulated the beads between his fingertips, the symbols displayed on them changing with each press. 

“These are kimoyo beads -- only one example of Wakandan innovation.” W’kabi held them up, one in each hand. “These have been configured as lie detectors. I will place them on your temples and you will tell us your story.” 

An image of the Soldier in the chair, apparatus clamped around his head and face in preparation for a mindwipe flashed in Brock’s mind, eliciting an involuntary shudder. 

“You need not fear. These will only monitor and record, no punishment will be delivered.” 

Brock leaned forward -- it wasn’t as if he had a choice -- and the blood-warm beads were stuck to his skin. W’kabi tapped his bracelet and it brought up a display of what Brock presumed were his vitals. 

“Now, let us begin.” W’kabi started by asking simple questions: his name, place of birth, the types of things that were easily verifiable. As they got into his military record and from there his history with SHIELD -- all probably part of Romanoff’s data dump -- Brock found himself explaining when and how his allegiance switched sides. Maybe it was the kimoyo beads, or a drug in the water, or maybe his conscience was finally kicking in with a vengeance. Regardless, there was a perverse pleasure in confessing his sins; maybe the Catholics were on to something. 

\- - -  
“Are you a rapist?” The abrupt question from Xoliswa took both him and W’kabi by surprise. Brock’s initial denial stuck in his throat. He had stolen and killed, yes, but sexual assault -- that was something different. Something for which there was no justification. But that hadn’t stopped him, had it? 

Brock hadn’t considered it rape at the time -- after all, he hadn’t threatened actual violence, but she wasn’t saying yes. To be honest with himself, she’d said no in every way except the word itself. And even though he’d tried to make it good for her, kissing her and feeling her up first, it had been wrong. He knew it then and he knew it now. 

Brock bowed his head, unable to look his inquisitors in the eye. “Yes.”  
\- - -

“Barbarian scum!” Xoliswa hissed and took a step forward. 

W’kabi held up a hand, “Hold fast, sister. Our king will ensure Rumlow receives the punishment he deserves. But we must first find out more of what this Hydra has done and plans to do.” 

From there, the interrogation kicked into high gear. W’kabi had Brock tell and retell the series of events from the Lagos attack until his arrival in Wakanda over and over; in bits and pieces as well as start to finish. He clearly knew what he was doing, trying to catch Brock out in a lie. But he was beyond trying to protect himself or his masters. He just wanted it all to be over and done with. 

Despite the plentiful supply of water, Brock’s throat was dry and raspy before W’kabi finally called a halt, reaching across the table to take the kimoyo beads from Brock’s temples. W’kabi manipulated them again before placing one on each of Brock’s wrists. A tendril extruded from each to form a loose bracelet. “You will continue to be monitored while you are our guest. Tap twice on the bead if you need to speak to someone.” W’Kabi turned to the guards. “Xoliswa, please escort Mister Rumlow to the guest quarters and make sure he has something to eat.” 

She snorted at the phrase ‘guest quarters’, but said nothing as Brock rose stiffly to his feet; even his new, strong body had felt the strain of the past few hours. They walked back through the halls, her curt, one-word directions taking them across the complex. They stopped before a thick, richly carved door. She touched her bracelet and the doors opened. 

Brock noted the gleaming metal around the doors’ edge; it clearly marked a high security area, although whether they were passing into or out of said area, he wasn’t sure. Halfway down the well-appointed hall, Xoliswa stopped and gestured to a door. “This is where you are to stay. A meal will be brought to you shortly.” 

His suite was comparable to a high-end resort — not that Brock had ever stayed in one — a separate bedroom with an acre’s worth of bed, a bathroom the size of his first apartment and a wall of windows overlooking the nighttime cityscape. But the door locked solidly behind him and he was certain he was under surveillance of one kind or another. He could hardly blame them.

There was a knock on the door a few minutes later; Xoliswa had returned, accompanied by the older man from earlier who now carried a covered tray. “Your dinner, sir.” As Brock took the tray, he continued, “You will find fresh clothing in the bureau, and toiletries for your personal comfort.” 

“Thank you.” 

“The king wishes to speak with you in the morning. Be ready by seven o’clock.” Xoliswa added, a stern look on her face. Brock nodded in acknowledgement as he stepped back from the door. She pulled it closed and the lock clicked once again. 

Brock set the tray down and took the cover off; the meal was an unfamiliar mix of meat and rice and vegetables, but it smelled delicious. There were no utensils; whether by tradition or as a precaution he had no idea, but it didn’t matter, as a stack of thin pita-like bread was on the tray as well. 

Before Brock knew it, he was wiping up a streak of sauce on the plate with the last piece of bread. THe dish had been spicy, but a large carafe of water took care of that well enough. He glanced at the clock, it was after midnight. Best try to get some shut-eye.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogers and Brock testify regarding recent events in front of T’Challa and his council, after which Brock is given a little more freedom within the guest wing. When Stark, Rogers and Barnes join him, they make an uneasy truce with Brock to develop a plan to rescue the their teammates from the Raft.

Brock awoke the next morning, nightmare-free for the first time in recent memory. Maybe they’d drugged his meal, or perhaps his body had finally overpowered his mind and demanded the rest it needed. 

Either way, the alarm he’d set gave him just enough time to shower and get dressed before one of Xoliswa’s fellow guards came to retrieve him. Equally terse in her interactions, she shepherded him through the complex to what Brock could clearly tell was the throne room. 

“Wait here. Touch nothing.” She left abruptly, returning a few minutes later with Rogers in tow. He was dressed much as Brock himself was, in loose cotton pants, a tunic and sandals. And while Brock didn’t have much experience with kids, he could swear Rogers looked older than he had the day before; maybe eight or nine years old instead of five or six. The guard stood at attention next to the door; she acted as if neither of them were there, but was clearly keeping a close eye on them both. 

“Hey, Rogers,” Brock called out in greeting. 

“Rumlow.” Rogers gave him a curt nod in reply, which was honestly more than Brock had expected. 

“How’s Barnes? Are they getting him fixed up okay?”

“Why the hell do you care?” Rogers spat out, the bitterness in his words belying his childish voice.

It was a fair question. “Listen, I know you and him both have every reason to hate me. I won’t deny that. But the man I was isn’t who I‘m trying to be now.” Before Brock could say anything more, the large ornate doors on the other side of the room swung open. 

Six members of the royal guard entered, Xoliswa among them, escorting W’kabi, T’Challa and several other men and women, all formally dressed in what Brock assumed was court attire. W’kabi wore a blue cape featuring elaborate embroidery draped around his shoulders, while the others wore some other primary color. Rogers assumed a parade rest position and bowed his head; Brock did the same, although he watched the procession closely. 

T’Challa sat on the throne, and the others took their places in the circle around him. Four of the guards took up positions guarding the doors, while the remaining two stood next to Brock and Rogers, looking them over with a degree of suspicion. 

T’Challa spoke briefly to his advisors, then switched over to English to address his guests. “Gentlemen, I have asked you both here to recount in your own words the events that brought you to Siberia. Captain Rogers,” he motioned Rogers to the middle of the circle, “if you would start at the point when you and I parted company at the airport?” There was a hint of a wry smile on his face, making Brock wonder what exactly had happened. 

Rogers spent the better part of a half-hour recounting the events of the last day or so: he told the king and his advisors that Stark had followed him and Bucky to the abandoned Siberian base after talking to Wilson and finding out about the other Hydra soldiers. He went on to explain Zemo’s appearance and the damage he wreaked with the video he showed them. 

Brock had heard the basics from Tony, but the way Rogers explained the situation, it was simply a setup. He didn’t seem to understand the emotional toll that seeing the video had taken on his teammate, and that got under Brock’s skin. Rogers was clearly taking Barnes’ side; which, Brock supposed, wasn’t a surprise. But he didn’t say a word, letting Rogers finish his story. 

The king listened intently, asking only a few questions. He nodded thoughtfully as Rogers wrapped up his story, then spoke to his advisors. “So, you see this Zemo is guilty not only of killing our kinsmen, but of plotting to turn the Avengers against one another.”

There was some discussion between the advisors and the king— once again in their native tongue — and then T’Challa addressed Rogers. “Thank you for your time, Captain. You may go.” One of the guards escorted Rogers from the room. “Mister Rumlow, please join us and explain how you got from Lagos to Siberia.” 

After his interrogation the previous day, Brock could recite the series of events practically in his sleep. But when he tried to simplify the story, W’kabi stopped him and insisted that Brock go through each and every detail. As Brock told his tale once more, there was the occasional murmur from the advisors who clearly understood English, even if they didn’t choose to speak it. But their body language and expressions made it clear that they neither believed nor trusted him. 

T’Challa, on the other hand, listened intently with no sign of judgement; Brock had already explained himself to the king back in Siberia, just not to this extent. While he didn’t know what to think about the rest of the king’s court, Brock trusted that between W’Kabi and T’Challa, he would be ensured of a fair trial. Granted, it would still probably result in either life in prison or the death penalty, but Brock had come to accept that he would have to pay for his crimes.

Once Brock had finished his story, T’Challa asked, “This Arnim Zola — what does he look like?” 

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him, only spoken to him on the phone or via intercom.” 

“I wonder how common of a name that is,” the king mused. “Surely he is not the Arnim Zola who worked for Red Skull during World War II.” 

“Don’t know how it could be, Your Majesty.” Brock replied. “Think I heard somewhere that he died back in the 1970’s.” But now he was questioning that story in his own mind. With all he’d seen and experienced, raising someone from the dead didn’t seem all that far-fetched. 

“I will have someone look into this further. I believe we have all the information we need from you right now, Mister Rumlow. You may return to your quarters.” 

Xoliswa walked him back to the guest wing. “This story you keep telling everyone,” she commented as they crossed the complex, “you actually believe it, don’t you?” 

“Don’t have much choice. It’s what happened.” She snorted disdainfully, but said nothing in reply. Which, after the second day of exhausting cross-examination, Brock was more than happy with. 

They passed through the security doors, but instead of taking him to his suite, Xoliswa continued down to the end of the hall. “You may spend the afternoon here in the lounge, as long as you do not cause trouble with your compatriots.” 

The lounge, like his suite, was very reminiscent of a high-end hotel lobby, minus the check-in desk, of course. One corner of the room featured a large-screen television with couches and chairs and a bookcase, while the opposite side opened out onto a walled courtyard. The corner closest to them was set up for informal dining, including a buffet table with covered serving dishes already set out. Brock hadn’t realized until that moment how hungry he was. 

“Thank you. I promise to behave myself.” 

“See that you do.” Once she left, Brock helped himself to an assortment of the dishes on offer. He found the small refrigerator stocked with various drinks and chose a familiar red and white can, thankful for a touch of home. After lunch, he went outside into the courtyard and got rid of some nervous energy by walking its perimeter a couple dozen times or so before stretching out on the grass under the trees. He must’ve fallen asleep, as the next thing he knew, the shadows had stretched nearly the length of the courtyard. 

Brock went back into the lounge, and a moment later, Rogers entered the room, followed by Barnes, who was moving slowly with his entire shoulder swathed in bandages. He turned even paler upon seeing Brock, and Rogers stepped in front of Barnes as if to protect him, giving Brock a fierce look. 

Holding his hands up in a display of harmlessness, Brock explained, “I was told I could hang here as long as I behaved myself.” He sighed. “Believe me, Cap, I’m not gonna start anything. I told you I’m not that guy anymore.” 

“Fine. Just ... keep your distance.” Brock remained by the exterior door while the two of them moved toward the buffet, which appeared to have been restocked while Brock had been napping. They all turned toward the main door when it opened and Stark walked in, accompanied by the older gentleman Brock had encountered before. 

“Enjoy your meal, gentlemen,” he said, “Please ring if you need assistance.” M’fisi pointed out a button near the door before leaving. 

Rogers barely acknowledged Stark’s presence, focusing on helping Barnes who in turn, didn’t seem to appreciate the attention. “I told you, Stevie. I ain’t hungry.”

“You gotta eat, Buck. Get your strength up.” Rogers replied, assuming once more that he knew best. Typical. Brock focused his attention on Stark instead, greeting him by name. 

“How you holding up?” Stark asked in reply. 

“Feel like I’ve been talking for days.” As they served themselves from the buffet, Brock gave Stark the Reader’s Digest version of how he’d spent the last two days. He ended his story by saying, “I hope they can do something with it.” 

Stark went to sit with Rogers and Barnes, raising an eyebrow when Brock held back.  
“Yeah, no. We’re not doing this anymore. Cap, stand down and let’s eat in peace.” 

Rogers glared, but held his tongue when Brock sat down. All four of them began their meal in near-silence, but after a few minutes, Barnes said, “If you ain’t gonna ask, punk, I will.” He raised his head to look at Tony. “Stark, what do you know about that Raft prison?”

Enough to know that whatever you’re thinking, you might as well give it up.” Tony replied. “It’s basically a mobile Alcatraz, with some serious computer security to boot.”

Rogers mentioned something about Stark having hacked into national weapons systems during the Ultron fiasco, but he didn’t rise to the bait, stating simply that security wasn’t the problem, it was the logistics.

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, for one thing, ” Stark explained, “you guys are more than a little short to be stormtroopers; no way you could pretend to be guards. And don’t even think about asking the king to send any of his own people in. He’s already done enough by offering us sanctuary.”

But Rogers wasn’t giving up. He mentioned Romanoff, but Stark shut him down, saying that she was probably keeping an eye on Barton’s wife and kids. Brock had no idea that Hawkeye had a family, but clearly Rogers did, as he winced at the mention. 

Spurred by the thought that he could contribute and help make things right, Brock broke in. “What about me? Everyone thinks I’m dead. Besides, I’m expendable. Whip up some credentials, and I’ll talk the talk and walk the walk.”

“Even if you got in, why would Sam or Clint trust you?” Rogers spat.

Brock mentioned SHIELD’s photostatic veils, figuring Stark and the Wakandans could make up something similar. “I show up as a guard, get in. then swap over to become Cap, just long enough to get your people out.” 

“That... might actually work,” Stark mused. “But the Raft spends 90% of its time underwater, It only surfaces when they’re expecting visitors.” Before Rogers could get a word in, Stark went on. “And no, Cap, you’re not going to try turning yourself in just to get access.”

“Toldja he wouldn’t go for it,” Barnes muttered. "Not that anyone would believe a kid was Captain America, anyways."

“Listen, Steve, I don’t think our friends belong there any more than you do,” Stark stated, “but we gotta think this through. So let's put that strategic mind of yours to good use already." Brock was reminded yet again that despite their pint-sized appearance, these men knew how to plan and execute a mission. 

They spent the rest of the evening working through what they would need if they were really going to go after the incarcerated Avengers. While most of the discussion - and arguments - ping-ponged between Rogers and Stark, Barnes contributed some ideas, as did Brock. It was almost like being part of a team again, and Brock hadn’t realized how much he missed that feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all you patient readers who have been following this hibernating WIP - I’m working to get the final chapter written and posted by the end of the month!
> 
> ETA: So I'm realizing (belatedly) that I really should have tagged this fic for MCD. I've assumed (wrongly) that people would have read the original fic this remix is based on, but that isn't always the case. **Therefore, you may wish to stop reading this fic here.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock accompanies Vision into the Raft to break out the Rogue Avengers; their rescue is very nearly a success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the major tag change — my apologies for not flagging this with MCD earlier. I assumed (wrongly) that the readers of this fic would have read By Their Bootstraps already and known where this was going.

Their flight was long and quiet; Rogers obviously had a lot on his mind, and so did Brock. The storm from a few nights ago had triggered what he wanted to call nightmares, but he knew were simply memories of past actions that he could no longer justify. He’d said as much to Stark — who had somehow become an ally, if not a friend — that the pain and revenge that had driven him to become Crossbones was no excuse. 

Brock had also confessed how he’d earned the hatred of Rogers and Barnes; not only had he been a double agent for Hydra, but he was also one of the Soldier’s handlers. “I didn’t treat him bad, slap him around or anything, like some others did. But I guess I didn’t think of him as a person, either. More like a -- I dunno -- video game character. You tell it what to do and it does it. If it fails, you reboot and start over.” 

Stark simply nodded and with a few choice words, both acknowledged Brock's past sins and recognized his desire to do better. Perhaps it was that connection that had led Brock to affectionately ruffle his hair before boarding the plane. He'd never let himself consider what it might be like to have a family of his own, but if he had, he'd have been proud to have a son even a little like Tony.

Brock looked out across the dark, restless ocean with a sense of foreboding. He didn’t know what awaited him in back in Wakanda, or for how much longer he could continue to evade Zola, but at least this mission was one small way he could attempt to balance the scales. 

They touched down on the coast just long enough to pick up Stark’s android creation, Vision. Stark had come up with the idea to have Vision tell Ross that he could use his powers on the Rogue Avengers to determine where Rogers and Barnes had gotten to, and the android would therefore be their key for entry. Vision stepped aboard the quinjet, and despite having been brought up to speed on what had gone down with its former teammates, it stared curiously at Rogers before looking Brock up and down with an oddly intense look on its maroon face, sending a shudder down Brock’s spine. 

“You are not the man you were before, Brock Rumlow,” it stated. “It is as if you were remade, practically down to the cellular level. And yet your memories were preserved. Fascinating.” 

“If you say so,” Brock muttered, not appreciating the verbal dissection by someone who was as much of an unnatural creation as he himself was. 

“And Captain, despite being regressed to a much younger age, you also retained your memories as well as the health benefits of the serum,” Vision commented. “I am very much looking forward to talking with Mister Stark and the Princess about their research into the technology that caused this predicament.” 

“Let’s get the job we came for done first,” Rogers responded tightly, apparently as uncomfortable with Vision’s observations as Brock was. 

The Raft lived up to its reputation; forbidding and formidable as it loomed amid the waves. The blast doors that were supposed to close down over the landing pad were momentarily non-functional -- a couple of tiny Wakandan drones had taken care of them. Considering the unsettled weather, their landing was surprisingly smooth, but Rogers shrugged off Brock’s congratulatory words. “Save it for when the mission’s done.” 

Rogers stayed on the quinjet as planned; Stark had assured them that was standard procedure for visitors. He’d also warned them about the thorough pat-down Brock and Vision would receive before being escorted to the cell block that held the rogue Avengers. The staff of The Raft didn't know what to think of Vision, responding to the android with a clear mix of revulsion and fear. Vision was clearly used to such behavior, but Brock realized that didn't make it right, and began questioning his own attitude as well. 

Vision explained why he had come to the Raft, and warned the guards to withdraw to a ‘safe distance’ while he focused his talents on the prisoners. “Your cooperation is greatly appreciated, gentlemen,” he finished smoothly, his unsettling gaze working to encourage their uneasy retreat. 

The moment they stepped into the cellblock, Vision expelled the equipment -- including a couple of icer guns -- that had been concealed within his body.

"Didn't that hurt, pal?" Brock couldn't help but ask. 

"There was mild discomfort, yes. But there was no other way to insure we had the apparatus we needed." Vision explained, with an almost puzzled look on his face, as if not understanding Brock's concern. 

"Well, thanks for taking one for the team." Brock slipped the comm into his ear and switched the mask over to Rogers’ face; banking on Wilson and the others assuming he was turning off the mask instead.

Vision approached Maximoff’s cell while Brock crossed the room towards Wilson, who watched intently with arms crossed as Brock used another Wakandan gadget to unlock his cell door. However, he made no move to step out of the cell once it swung open. 

“Come on Sam. We’ve got to go.” His former opponent’s name fell clumsily from Brock’s lips.

“Tell me who you really are and I’ll think about it.” Wilson uncrossed his arms and shifted his weight as if readying himself for a fight. 

Brock cursed under his breath before Rogers’ voice came over the comm. “Okay - tell him this. That you need him to be on your left so trouble man don’t get in our way.” 

After Brock repeated the words, Wilson’s posture relaxed just a bit, although his suspicious expression remained. “Where’s Steve?” Out of the corner of his eye, Brock could see that Barton and the other guy were just waiting to see what came next. 

“Topside - keeping the quinjet warm. Are we good or not?” They didn’t have time for this shit. Stark and the Princess couldn’t guarantee the jamming system would work for longer than about ten or fifteen minutes and Vision had already freed Maximoff and was about to disarm her collar. 

“For now,” Wilson replied. Brock nodded and moved on to open the other two cells. 

Barton gave Vision an uneasy look as he stepped out, while the other guy introduced himself. “So, what’s the plan?” Lang asked, sounding strangely chipper for someone who was being broken out of the most secure prison in the world. 

“Vision and Maximoff, if she’s up to it, will create a diversion while we all make our way back to the quinjet. If we have to, we use these.” Brock handed over one of the icers to Barton, figuring he’d have the best aim. “They’re non lethal, if that makes you feel better.” 

“It should, I suppose,” Barton muttered. “Lead the way, whoever you are.” 

“He is a man who should be dead,” Maximoff spat, her eyes glowing red the moment Vision freed her. “I will try harder this time.” Fuck. 

“Wanda, wait.” Vision broke in, taking her hands in his. “There’s no time to explain, but he is not the man you think you know. We need his help and we have to go. Now.” 

She glared poisonously at Brock, but let Vision take her by the arm and lead her to the hallway. Brock gestured for the three other men to follow the android, adding, “I’ll cover from the rear.” 

They were almost back to the landing pad when the alarms started to blare. Guards popped up out of nowhere and both Barton and Brock were kept busy laying down covering fire while the others ran for the quinjet. 

“Get going, Hawkeye. I got this!” Brock yelled, waving the Avenger towards safety as red tendrils shot up from Maximoff’s hands toward the sky. A moment later, a clap of thunder shook the entire building, and a sudden torrential cloudburst drove the guards towards cover. Rumlow ran instead for the stairs to take advantage of higher ground.

Maximoff had stirred up a hell of a storm; wind and rain lashing the Raft as the waves surged all around. Brock kept his footing as best he could while still taking potshots at the remaining guards who were trying to keep the quinjet pinned down. They shot back, hitting their mark, as a searing pain shot through Brock’s side and arm. He stumbled backwards before falling to his knees much too close to the edge. 

The gun fell from his numb hand as he watched the quinjet lift off, racing against the blast doors slowly closing around it. The automated defensive battery of guns remained oddly silent; whether it was Maximoff and Vision or more Wakandan technology keeping them that way didn’t matter as long as his friends were safe. 

“Brock!” He barely heard the shout over the storm. Opening his eyes, he saw Rogers clinging to one of the ramp struts on the back of the quinjet as it hovered just a few yards away. “Take my hand!” 

Brock actually considered it for a moment; if he could somehow muster the energy to rise to his feet, take a few running steps, he just might make it. But then he saw the massive wave that was just about to break over the opposite side of the Raft. He’d been living on borrowed time long enough, so Brock simply gave Captain America a sincere salute before the jet soared up out of reach and the ocean surged over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to yell at me in the comments ... and/or hang onto the thought that T’Challa might have sent Xoliswa and some of her sister Dora Milaje to follow his guests to the Raft...

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually the original version of By Their Bootstraps, but I decided to re-write the fic from Tony's POV to better fit the intent of the contest it was intended for. Thankfully, the January Tony Stark Bingo Discord party gave me a chance to dust off this abandoned WIP and share it with y'all.


End file.
